


Opening Night

by Namarea



Category: Original Work, Spells - Fandom, Statuphication, Statuphile, Turning to stone
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:49:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1391695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Namarea/pseuds/Namarea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This short story was written for a dear friend, Argoforg (Mark Hughey), who delighted me by reenacting the story in person many years ago. Argo is a tremendous artist whose works can be found on DeviantArt. Check him out at http://www.deviantart.com/?q=argoforg&offset=10</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opening Night

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so if you're not into the whole "statuephile" thingy you'd better not read this one.

                Opening night has always brought me giddy apprehension coupled with tremendous excitement. This opening night was no different. My performance was flawless throughout the first and second acts. And as the curtain closed on the final act a round of thunderous applause met my ears. I was on top of the world. My leading man pushed me forward, to accept my laudation, as the curtain rose for our bows. Cries of “Encore, Encore” burst from the audience as I accepted a bouquet of three dozen long-stemmed roses.

 

                The roses were of a heady fragrance and I inhaled deeply of their scent as my eyes locked with the dark-haired, strangely alluring young man who had handed them to me. I didn’t recall having ever seen him before, but assumed he was one of a multitude of stagehands employed by the company. My smile seemed to melt away as I watched his full, sensuous lips move silently. His hand touched my own as the flowers passed between us and I pulled back as though singed.

 

                I took a single step backward, my breath catching in my throat as the flowers were taken from me by another stagehand. I looked around for the young man and saw him near the edge of the stage, just out of the audience’s sight near the curtain. His lips were still moving silently and something about the way his eyes raked my body frightened me.

 

                My co-stars had already taken leave of the stage as I took a final curtain call and dropped a low curtsy to the audience. Upon rising, however, my eyes darted back once again to the strange dark man still whispering unknown words in my direction. It seemed as though the scent of the roses was still all around me, and my vision was becoming blurred. I tried to lift my leg to step back, but remained seemingly frozen in place. A coldness in my feet began to slowly creep up my legs, over my knees, caressing my thighs, clinging to my hips.

 

                I couldn’t move! I began to panic. I cried out, my eyes wide with fear as suddenly the applause faded to absolute silence, all eyes upon me.

 

                A solitary sound reached my ears. A whisper of unintelligible words likes a prayer…or a spell. I touched my legs, my hips, followed the coldness up my body with my hands. My body was not only growing cold, it was growing hard, solid almost like…”NOOOOOO! O God no please, NO!” The realization hit me with the weight of mountain. My body was turning to stone.

 

                My breath was coming in gasps now. The coldness claimed my stomach, my abdomen, my back. I looked down to see my breasts through the thin, clingy material of my costume. They heaved with my final breaths as the stony coldness claimed them. My nipples were now perfect little pebbles on alabaster globes.

 

                My arms froze in place with one hand raised to my throat, the other reaching out to the audience, beseeching them for help. Tiny hairline cracks formed as the stone commanded my flesh to relinquish its hold on my body. My long red curls lost their luster as they too solidified and a look of stark terror became forever emblazoned across my face. I tried to cry out to anyone listening, “P-Please, hellllp meeee. I d-don’t waaaant toooooo turrrrrrrn toooooooooo stoo-oooo-ooooone.”

 

                But my voice was gone. No word would I utter ever again. And the last sound I ever heard as the stone seeped into my brain, was the thunderous applause of the audience and their cries of “Encore, Encore,” as the curtain fell for me one last time.


End file.
